


Taste

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 08:12:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15432750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir gets swept up in the mood of the party.





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for gohan-n’s “Elrondir. [a kiss out of lust] Even better if Lindir's the one to make the move” request on [my tumblr prompt list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/176075204220/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The welcoming banquet isn’t _anything_ like it would be in Imladris—it’s set far too late, the music’s far too loud, and too many torches are lit even though the summer heat is already sweltering. Lindir feels like he can barely breathe. The rich wine served at every table only made it worse, so now he sticks to water. He can’t seem to drink enough to keep from suffocating.

It would probably be wiser to sit down, but there are so few chairs left, and Elrond ordered him _to have fun_. If there’s one thing Lindir will suffer for, it’s his lord Elrond’s word. So he lets himself be sucked into the pulsing crowd, lets himself be swallowed up in the tangle of sweat-slicked limbs, lets himself be drawn into moving with the beat. Even the minstrels are different here—only one plays a flute, none play the harp, and the rest have new instruments that create raw, pounding rhythms. The Woodland Realm is a wild place.

Lindir isn’t a wild elf. But with enough wine in his stomach, he can pretend to be for a few late hours. He’s sure by now it’s well into the morning. The sky beyond the forest grove is dark, but the flickering fires light up the stars. A honey-haired elf with a dazzling smile sweeps Lindir up into a dance, and they sway before one another less than an arm’s length apart. The elf keeps giggling and arching forward to grind his hips into Lindir’s body, but Lindir still has some restraint. He’s losing it. His eyes keep straying over the elf’s slender shoulder to the head table, where both lords are deep in conversation.

King Thranduil looks as free as the rest of his citizens—his long hair is swept back but undone, his exquisite silver robes clinging tightly to his frame, his languid posture and half-lidded eyes already heavy with drink. Lord Elrond is only a touch better. One of the braids Lindir studiously gave him earlier has already come undone, and his high robes are unfastened at the collar. A thin sheen of sweat glistens along his skin, but his eyes are clear and his posture doesn’t waver. Lindir watches a single wet bead form along his jaw and slither down his throat, fading down his chest. Lindir can’t remember ever seeing Elrond’s robes even remotely undone.

The peek of it now is tantalizing, along with every part of him—his broad shoulders, his handsome face, the elegance with which he makes every move. The more Lindir looks at Elrond, the more his body heats, and he was already boiling. It’s almost more than he can bear, but he can’t look away. His dance partner doesn’t seem to mind. But then the elf loops his arms around Lindir’s waist and playfully nips at his jaw, and Lindir’s focus is drawn back. 

He looks at the elf’s pretty face, and he feels halfway there. This isn’t who he wants, but the _want_ is getting to him, and thinking of Elrond’s chiseled body bare and dripping—

“Lindir.”

The deep voice runs through Lindir like lightning. He shivers as he turns away from the dancer, right into his lord. Elrond gently drapes an arm around Lindir’s shoulders and guides him away—the other elf immediately steps back and disappears into the crowd.

Having Elrond touching him is like a dream to Lindir. Having Elrond _so close_ is more intoxicating than the wine. He smells rich and earthy and utterly _delicious_ , and his voice has always done wicked things to Lindir’s mind. Elrond leans into him, which doubles Lindir’s hopes, but Elrond only murmurs, “I am sorry to interrupt your dance, Lindir... but I worry you may have had too much to drink.”

Linder blinks for a moment, then laughs once, promising, “I have not had much.” It isn’t what he wanted Elrond to say, but it touches him that Elrond’s concerned for him, and that Elrond was watching him enough to know. But Lindir can only be tempted to indulge so much.

“I know. But you are unused to any at all. I apologize if my suggestion pushed you to anything...”

Lindir took it as a command, because he wants to obey Elrond’s every word. He looks at Elrond, hanging on, and he mostly feels fine but is maybe _a bit_ dizzy, and so, _so_ hot. Standing in Elrond’s arms makes it infinitely worse. Lindir’s body longs to continue dancing to the music, to grind against Elrond’s attractive figure. Lindir finds his hand reaching up to Elrond’s chest, splaying across the front.

He lifts up on his toes and brushes his lips over Elrond’s mouth before he can help himself. He wants to kiss Elrond _hard_ , wants to turn as feral and satisfying as the other elves around him, because he’s drowning in lust and can’t let go. But the kiss remains simple, and as soon as it’s over, Lindir’s blushing and spluttering, “I... I am so sorry...”

Elrond smiles kindly. He offers, “Shall I escort you back to your quarters?”

Lindir nods, even though he wants to go to _Elrond’s quarters_ , push him down in bed and climb onto his lap, ride him hard and fast—

But Lindir’s not quite drunk enough for any of that. So he just nods and mutters, “Thank you.” Elrond nods and guides him away.


End file.
